Damned Bloody Assassins
by CarrieVS
Summary: Someone's killing people. Without a license. The Watch are getting nowhere and the Assassins want them off the case. Vimes is at breaking point but something's about to take his mind off his work.
1. The Stage is Set

**Disclaimer:** Discworld and all it's characters are the intellectual property of Terry Pratchett. The words and my own characters are mine. The plot: no idea. I don't make it up, I just write it down, and I am not responsible for any of it.

Some of what I write is quite dark. Blacker, possibly, than Sham Harga's coffee. Blacker, that is to say, than a moonless night, overcast by cumulus clouds and viewed from a point far away from human habitation. I will warn readers at the top of the relevant chapters, but if you skip them, it won't make sense.

**Author's Note:** I've not added to this story for a while, since I've been trying to concentrate on original work - I aim to have a novel written and start trying to publish it by next summer - but I hope to have another chapter up soon. Eagle eyed readers may notice that two chapters appear to have gone missing: I've done some editing and, since some of the chapters were quite short, I've condensed the story so far into two less sections. The six chapters published at the time of writing contain everything from the eight chapters I had before this editing. I haven't added any more or changed any of the events, but I've altered the writing in a lot of places, and tried to take on board what reviewers have said.

I would like to thank everyone who has reviewed so far, especially those who gave constructive criticism (and one or two that pointed out mistakes, please do!). Very much appreciated.

Please review, you'll get a shout-out in the next chapter (unless you ask not to). I'm not going to rewrite all the shout-outs for previous reviews, but they're still appreciated. If I was able to reply to your review, I'll probably just say thank you: I don't appreciate it any less than people I give longer comments, but their review was anonymous, so I couldn't reply.

On that note: **Reviews **(since my last update):

mischieflover, ozymandias, History Buff: thank you very much.

Dav1d: thank you very much, glad you liked it. You don't by any chance want to comment on what you think is going on/whodunnit? I could really do with knowing how much I'm letting on: I know what's going to happen, so it's impossible to be impartial.

**Enjoy!**

[**X X X** denotes a change of POV or time/location; footnotes are referred to by numbers in bold and are located at the bottom of each chapter]

* * *

The boy limped along the street. His right leg dragged behind him and didn't seem to want to take his weight. He was rake-thin and every few steps he stopped and coughed heavily, his ragged frame shaking as if he was a rat in the grip of a terrier. He didn't get a second glance. Maybe he should have: if this was a fairy tale he'd have been taken in by a rich, kindly old gentleman and would have turned out to be his long lost nephew**1**and lived happily ever after, but this isn't a fairy tale. The only people who got a second glance in the Shades were people who looked rich, and he couldn't have looked less rich; or people who didn't look as though they belonged there.

But we've noticed him. He's wearing dull brown and dark grey. His face is dirty to match. His feet are bare. It's hard to see his eyes in the shadows in which he walks, but they are also dull brown. His hair is very dark, and hasn't seen a brush for a long time**2**, or maybe never. He looks about four, but is probably nearer seven.

**x x x**

In a better part of the city, which is anywhere else in the city, Commander Vimes of the Watch was annoyed. Which was usual. On this particular Thursday afternoon, he was annoyed because he'd just had a meeting with the Patrician. Lord Downey had been there. Vetinari had as good as told him that if he didn't catch The Bastard soon the Watch would be taken off the case and replaced by the Assassins' Guild.

The Bastard was a particularly cunning killer, responsible for a number**3** of particularly perplexing murders. The first one had been more than three months ago, and the Watch were no nearer to solving the case; there had been a confession, but this was a case that Vimes wanted to solve in earnest, and Done-it Duncan had been sent packing as soon as he'd finished his cup of tea.

. Vimes thought of the him as The Bastard because he'd spent three months saying things like: 'we've got to catch the bastard soon' or 'the bastard's bound to slip up some time and then we'll have him' and although he'd been wrong, the handle had stuck.

Vimes knew that the Assassins thought they should handle this. The Bastard seemed to be a contract killer. All but one of the victims had been powerful men; the one was the fifth, who had been a powerful woman; with the sort of wealthy enemies who saw assassination as a faster alternative to negotiation, but who had their reasons for not wanting to go through the official channels. Although the killings were clearly the work of one man, there was no single person who had wanted more than three of the victims dead, so it looked as though this was the work of a freelance, unlicensed assassin.

Vimes knew very well that the Assassins had a good claim to the case. He also knew very well that it would be sensible to hand it over. After all, the Thieves Guild handled all unlicensed theft, and he never complained about that. It took the load off his men, and Thieves were better prepared to catch a thief in any case. Vimes reflected that the saying about setting a thief was probably just as true for an assassin. But he would be damned if he let that bunch of black-clad pompous snobs take his case. And it was his case. It was personal. Not that The Bastard had done anything to Vimes, and most of the people killed had been the sort of people Vimes felt the world was better off without. It was personal because he had worked on almost nothing but this case for three months and was beginning to suspect that the man**4** was evading justice purely to annoy him.

Vimes hated The Bastard's guts; also Lord Downey's. The things he would like to do to them both would take a long time to list. As he proceeded back to Pseudopolis Yard he was indulging in a fantasy of discovering that the killer was, in fact, the chief Assassin.

**X X X**

In the Shades Lieven Aderlessan struggled to his feet, clutching his side where the knife had gone in. Then he realised that it didn't hurt as much as he would have expected. Not much at all really. Then he looked down and saw the reason why. Then he looked up.

A bystander was not a good sight if you'd just been attacked in the Shades in Ankh-Morpork. The chances were they weren't going to help you up and ask if you were alright. But somehow Lieven didn't think the very tall, extremely thin individual dressed in black was here to slit his throat and strip his corpse.

LIEVEN ADERLESSAN? IF YOU'D JUST STEP THIS WAY. The scythe moved.

'He killed me! The bastard!'

THAT WOULD SEEM TO BE THE CASE.

'I never even saw him!'

Death was surprised. And quite impressed. Usually the people he met were calmer. It was to do with glands and so on, and not having them. It meant that while you could think much more clearly, you didn't feel more than, say, mild annoyance.

'Who was it?'

I HAVEN'T THE FAINTEST IDEA.

'Didn't you see him?'

I WAS NOT HERE AT THAT TIME.

'So you don't even know what happened to me! I wouldn't call that doing your job properly?' Lieven believed firmly in doing a job properly. But his anger at being murdered was beginning to subside; 'What's going to happen to me now then? Do I get reincarnated? Or is there some sort of afterlife?'

Death sighed. This was not part of his job description. THAT IS UP TO YOU. I AM JUST HERE TO MAKE SURE THAT YOU DIE.

**X X X**

Julyan Biondi walked along Sweetheart Lane. He didn't hurry, or stroll, or stride; he certainly didn't dawdle or saunter. That sort of thing could get you noticed, and in the Shades, you did not want to be noticed. Biondi could probably take on anyone who tried to attack him, but there was always the chance of being taken by surprise. He was also wearing an old, rather ragged brown cloak so that, unusually for even an off-duty Assassin, the only thing black about him was his hair. Assassin's Black would also get you noticed. In most parts of Ankh-Morpork, that was fine, but in the Shades there were people who weren't frightened of Assassins. In fact, inhuming an Assassin gave you a certain status. The Shades was a dangerous place, even for the dangerous.

He walked as fast as he could without seeming to hurry. There was a skill to it, but Biondi was well-practised. He was in a hurry, though. His informant had found the body nearly two hours ago; the Watch could get there at any time. He needed to be there before the Watch this time. Biondi was well aware that Samuel Vimes did not want Assassins interfering with what he saw to be his job, and the case was still officially under Watch jurisdiction, despite Lord Downey's repeated appeals to the Patrician.

Biondi was investigating the killings himself, with the informal consent of his chief. The Guild considered it to be their business. The man was almost certainly killing for money, which made the crime unlicensed assassination, not mere murder.

**X X X**

Sergeant Angua reappeared from behind the pile of rubble where a section of wall had collapsed, and made her report:

'He's been dead about seven hours; died here. Lots of blood. There're plenty of other scents, most old. I think five people have been here today.'

'How many of them could have killed him?'

'Two were here together, a man and woman; easy enough to smell what they were doing.'

'Easy enough to guess too. Unlikely then. Who else?'

'A troll, wandered in here, sat down over there and snorted something beginning with 'S', not sure exactly what. Sat here for a while then left. He didn't go near the body.'

'A troll wouldn't have stabbed him neatly like that anyway. Any dwarfs?'

'One was here earlier, but I'm almost sure that was before our stiff was anywhere near. Came in, threw up in the corner and left. Heading towards the Troll's Head. You think it's a dwarf, Sir?'

'Either that or the killer was sitting down. The stiff isn't any taller than the next man, but he was stabbed below the waist, upwards.'

'Could have been close to him, talking maybe, got the knife out without him noticing and stabbed him with his arm by his side. Sorry Sir.' Captain Carrot spoke apologetically, and slightly nervously. Vimes was not in a good mood to be contradicted.

'Damn!' Vimes swore, 'Every time I think I've found out anything about The Bastard, anything at all, it turns out to be wrong. He's doing it on purpose, I'm sure.'

'Yes sir.' Carrot's expression was wooden. 'But who were the other two people who've been here?'

'Both men, one middle-aged, the other quite young. He smells familiar, but I can't place him. The older one came straight to this spot, stood by the body for a minute, but didn't touch it.'

'Hard to have killed him then. I want to find him, though.'

'Yes Sir. The other man was here later. He didn't come straight over here: walked around the alley, poking into corners. Then he came and looked at the body. Stood still for a minute, just looking, then he turned him over. His scent's all over the body. He spent quite a while looking at it, then left in the opposite direction than he came.'

'Find him. The other one too, but the second's the most important. He's the killer, he must be.'

'He wasn't here until hours after the man was dead, Sir, I'm sure of that.'

How sure, Sergeant? How about this: he's a cunning Bastard. He knows there's a werewolf in the watch, so he covers his tracks-'

'He couldn't fool Angua's nose, Sir. If she says he wasn't here when the man was killed, he wasn't.'

'Do not interrupt me, Captain. So he remembers exactly where he went, waits a few hours, comes back, retraces his steps exactly, handles the body, leaves the same way he left before. Would you notice the older scent under the new one, Sergeant? Find him, anyway. See if you can follow him. You said he smelled familiar, work out where from. Find him.'

**X X X**

The dog trotting along, nose to the ground, got plenty of second glances. In the shades it was followed by looks of hunger**5** or of greed as it was mentally transformed into a coat and a pair of gloves. Somehow it didn't seem a good idea to try for the physical version. The few individuals who did try to approach backed away hurriedly when the dog looked up and gave the tiniest, but most menacing of growls. When it reached the wealthier parts of the city the stares were of admiration.

Dogs were easy to find in Ankh-Morpork: pets, lapdogs, guard dogs being exercised; any number of stray dogs roamed the streets in packs. Almost all were mongrels with more varieties in their ancestry than Heinz. This one was tall, sleek, elegant. Obviously of such high pedigree as to make William Charles Ormonde 'Fluffy' Fetherington the Sixth look like the sort of puppy who, if he was bathed, brushed, house trained and had a bow tied round his neck, might just aspire to be the sort of puppy who is given away 'free to good home'.

The dog, or rather bitch, rounded the next corner, looked ahead of her, sniffed the air a few times and appeared to swear under her breath. Lowering her nose back to the pavement she followed the scent to the gate of the Assassins' Guild, growled a little and turned back the way she'd come.

* * *

**1**Or grandson, or something. Unless it's the one where he turned out to be the third son of a king, and had a number of exciting adventures, saved the world, slew the dragon, married the princess and lived happily ev- But this isn't a fairy tale and I'm not going to write one in this footnote.

**2**But it did once see a comb, which ran away in terror.

**3**Eight

**4**Estressa Partleigh, of the Campaign for Equal Heights, has asked that it be stated that the word 'man' is in this context used as shorthand for 'individual who might belong to any of Ankh-Morpork's many races, and any gender.'

**5**It's true that dwarfs will eat dog, but only when they can't get rat. In Ankh-Morpork, this is not a problem. The hungry looks were from the humans.


	2. Bloodyminded

**Warning:** This chapter contains scenes which some readers may find upsetting.

* * *

'Vimes is going to go spare!'

'I know he is, Nobby.' Angua said tiredly, 'We'd better get it over with. Wish me luck.' Leaving Corporal Nobbs she knocked on the door of Vimes' office and went inside.

Vimes went spare.

'He was killed by an Assassin!'

'No sir; I remembered where I smelled him before. He's been at the last three crime scenes-'

'Aha! There are two killers! This Assassin's been disguising his killings as The Bastard's. Get a squad together; we're going to the Assassin's Guild.'

'We know it wasn't a licensed Assassin, Sir and in any case-'

'He could have been working illegally. We don't even know it was an Assassin, just someone from the Guild. Haven't I always said you can't trust those posh bastards!'

'Sir, his was at the other crime scenes when I went back to look again. It wasn't there when we found the bodies, so he can't be the killer. I think he's trying to solve the case.'

'An Assassin! Solving my case! Get a squad together; we're going to the Assassin's Guild.'

'We're going to see if he's found anything?'

'Were going to bloody arrest him! I'll be damned if I'm working with the Assassins!'

**X X X**

'You want to arrest one of my Assassins? On what charge, Commander?' Lord Downey spoke smoothly. Usually Vimes intimidated him, but today he smiled like a hyena who holds all the aces, and doesn't care about mixing his metaphors. Vimes fought an ancient urge to tug his forelock and a slightly less ancient urge to swing an axe.

'Wasting Watch Time. Ignoring a Ruling of the Patrician. Being a Bloody Idiot. And Pissing Me Off.'

The Assassin laughed; 'That last carries the death penalty, I presume. And do you know who your man is?'

'I don't know his name, but my Sergeant can identify him if she sees him.'

'I think I can save her the trouble.' Downey rang a bell and a servant entered, 'Find Mr Biondi, Savidge, and send him to me. I don't really think we need to arrest anyone, Commander. After all, it's well known that you're getting nowhere with this case and Vetinari is going to hand it over to us. But we will be happy to give you any information that might help. '

'You told him to do it! Arrest him too! Conspiracy to... to everything the other one's being charged with.'

**X X X**

In Ankh-Morpork, a child slept. There was a fluffy blue blanket on his bed, and a stuffed swamp dragon held tightly under his arm. A live dragon, ancient and toothless, stretched out snoring next to the bed, its head in a pool of dribble. A watchman's copper badge, a tin helmet and a wooden sword lay on a chair. On the wall, a woolly lamb rocked backwards and forwards on a clock.

Young Sam Vimes, aged three, son of the Duke and Duchess of Ankh, slept soundly, sucking his thumb and smiling softly.

**X X X**

In Ankh-Morpork, a child slept. He was curled into a ball, his back pressed tightly into the corner between the wall and the back steps of the building. He shivered in his sleep. His clothes were the same dingy rags he wears every day, and night. His only other covering was a filthy, crumpled sheet of what might have been the Times. Further down the alleyway, a Seamstress plied her trade with a thin, hairy man; a drunken youth vomited into the gutter and sank to the ground, retching.

**X X X**

Vimes laid his head on his arms and closed his eyes. He needed a drink. He hadn't had a drink in years now; maybe that was the problem. No.

But he'd acted like an idiot. Stupidly. Bloody stupidly. Without bloody thinking. Like a bloody idiot. In front of the damned bloody Assassins. In front of bloody Downey. Downey! The damnedest, bloodiest, most irritating bloody man in the whole damned bloody crowd of damned bloody... bloody... damned bloody Assassins! That was the only bloody word for them, Assassins. And he'd bloody well gone and made a bloody fool of himself in front of that bloody Assassin.

No; Assassins. There was the other one too. Vimes groaned. How had he been so stupid! That wretched Assassin who, a tiny part of Vimes said, had been making as much progress on this case as the Watch had, who seemed like a decent enough man, who Vimes would happily sit down and have a drink**1** with if it wasn't for- Another damned Assassin: the tiny part of his mind was quickly silenced.

He heard an apologetic knock at the door of his office. That was ridiculous. How could a knock be apologetic? It was just the sound of a fist on wood. It always sounded the same. It came again and it definitely sounded apologetic. The third knock broke through his thoughts. He jerked upright;

'Come in.'

It was Colon, with a mug of tea in one hand and a nervous expression on his face. He put the mug on Vimes' desk. 'Sir; the wages chitty...Sir?'

'Fred. Do you honestly, in all truth, think this is the time to be bringing me paperwork?' There was an edge to the Commander's voice.

'Sir. I'm not bringing you it, Sir. It's been on your desk for nearly two weeks, Sir. I need to take it to the Palace, Sir, or the men won't get paid, Sir.'

'Then bloody well forge my damn signature! Or something! I don't care what you do: just sort it out. Or tell Carrot to sort it out. No. Not Carrot. The last thing I need is for Carrot to come in here and be ... Carrot about it. Get Angua to sort it out. Or Pessimal: it's his damn job. I don't care!

I do not want to be bothered by anything, anything at all, if it does not have to do with The Bastard. That is an order.'

**X X X**

'Is that so? Dear me; he is so enthusiastic, isn't he, Drumknott?' Lord Vetinari sighed, 'I did hope he would be able to sort this one out. Still, we must count our blessings: at least he was persuaded not to arrest Downey. But perhaps I ought to prevent our excellent Watch Commander from embarrassing himself any further.'

**X X X**

'Someone to see you, Sir.' Captain Carrot spoke infuriatingly cheerfully as he opened Vimes' door.

The Commander was slumped over his desk, head on arms. He spoke without looking up; 'Is it about The Bas-'

'No Sir.' The two words seemed somehow to contain far too much meaning, but Vimes was too tired to work it out.

'I gave an order, Captain. Whoever it is can wait. Or you can deal with them, just leave me alone unless it's-'

'It's important, Sir.'

Something in Carrot's voice finally made Vimes look up. Carrot stood in the doorway, his hand on - Vimes inwardly cursed himself for his sharp words - Young Sam's head.

'Special Constable Vimes reporting for duty, Sir!' He managed to say before grinning and running to his father's side. He was wearing his Watchman's outfit: old blanket as a cloak, tin helmet and breastplate, wooden sword and a real Watch badge. Vimes smiled, bad mood gone, for now, as his son stood to attention**2**.

'Did Purity bring you?'

'No! Captain Carrot came to get me! He said you wanted me to come and do a-' his three-year-old chest puffed out with pride '-a special mission!'

**X X X**

The black-haired boy staggered out of the burning house. People were already gathering to try to put out the blaze. They took no notice of the child. They had their own problems**3**.

Dazed, the boy looked around him: a figure in the distance running; carrying something over his shoulder. He followed, crying out in sudden pain as he stumbled on his injured leg. He kept going, trying in desperation to catch up. The end of the street. Round the corner. His leg burned now with every step. He gasped for breath: exhausted, but to stop would be unbearable. But then he slowed. There was no sign of them.

A scream, quickly cut off; a curse and a choking sob. He followed the sounds into a narrow alley. His sister was there, and Him. He was on top of her as she lay crumpled on the ground. The boy screamed, not in terror but in rage as he charged, pain forgotten, at the thick-set man.

Who tossed him aside like a ragdoll. His head hit the wall and he lay stunned as his attacker stood over him and smashed three vicious kicks into his belly. Bleeding and winded, he could only watch in helpless fury as the man returned to the girl's side.

She put up a fight. But the strength of a twelve-year-old is no match for a grown man, and fists and nails are feeble weapons against a knife. She struggled and he pinned her to the ground, but when she scratched his face he slit her throat and her scream was choked in crimson blood. He threw the blade to one side while he finished with the dying child.

His mistake. The boy could not stand, but he crawled painfully forward. The man stood, blood on his shirt and satisfaction on his face. He laughed to see the boy's efforts;

'You don't give up? We'll have to do something about that!' He reached down, a deadly grin spreading horribly onto his features.

The strong fingers ground into his ribs and throat; he couldn't breathe. He was dragged upright, lifted until his face was level with his foe. The man was going to kill him next, there was nothing he could do to stop it, he was choking, he couldn't breathe, he was going to die. He went limp. He saw the laughter in the brutal face and felt the iron grip relax a fraction. Enough. He struck out with all his force and felt the dagger he'd picked up slice into the thick neck.

The red blood sprayed from the wound, and through the ruby mist he saw the laughter turn to shock, anger, fear, and then nothingness.

The child fell heavily from the loosened hold as the lifeless body collapsed. He struggled free of the corpse and crawled to his sister's side. She was already dead. Blood covered her neck and chest, hid the awful gash from which it still flowed. Scarlet froth had spilled from her mouth over her small face. She lay still, broken and bloody, her life pooled bright and warm around her. Her blood mixed with her killer's and her brother's as the boy rested his head on her chest and cried.

Lying in his sister's blood he cried for grief, for pain, for useless rage, for his home, his parents and his brother in the burning room, for his sister growing cold beside him. He lay bleeding on the hard earth, and cried.

* * *

**1**Of lemonade, of course...

**2**Mostly to attention. Vimes had to work quite hard not to laugh as the little boy stood with his feet smartly together, little chest puffed out, left thumb in line with the seam of his trousers... right thumb in mouth.

**3**Right now, for instance, deadly flames were threatening to set light to their own homes. There's no such thing as altruism in the Shades


	3. Flashback

**Warning:** This chapter contains scenes which some readers may find upsetting.

(I don't have such dark stuff in every chapter, it just happens to be two together)

* * *

He lay bleeding on the hard earth, and cried.

And woke up.

He tensed, motionless but ready to spring to his feet. Silent, he looked around the unfamiliar surroundings. A small room, dimly lit. Bars in front of him, a larger, brighter space beyond; solid stone wall behind and to either end of the hard pallet. He relaxed, remembering.

He sat up slowly, body aching, the old wound in his leg throbbing. He stretched it slowly, thinking. It had been years since he'd dreamed of that night. Probably the hard bed and the ache it had set off in his thigh had reminded his sleeping self.

The bed wasn't so uncomfortable. Positive luxury to what he'd once known. He had grown soft.

There were muffled sounds of activity from above, but apparently no one was concerned with him at the present. He leaned back against the stones, letting his mind wander. Almost straight away it wandered back to that night. He tried to think about anything else, but the cell offered little stimulus. After a while he gave in.

**X X X**

He'd opened the door; opened it just a crack, like you did, to see who it was. It had been two men: he'd recognised one, who'd been to the house before. A small, wiry man who smiled a kind of half smile, one side of his face not moving. He felt a knot of anxiety twist in his stomach. The children had been sent out to play in the street, and when they were allowed back in Dad had been worried and Ma was upset. The other man was a stranger, but one look at him was enough to send the little boy running to the other side of the room.

'It's that man what come see you last week Dad. And someone else.' His father had crossed to the door and pulled it open. The first man had walked in, pushing his way past without waiting to be invited. His brutish companion followed.

Marko had got to his feet and made as if to try and stop them, but the thug had sneered at him;

'You think you'se big enough to play? Sit back down, pipsqueak.'

He hadn't sat down, but he had stood silently next to his father, eyes downwards.

'Julyan, Adela, go play outside. Go with them, Marko.'

'I'll stay, Ma.'

'You'll go and look after your brother and sister.' Their father had cut him short. 'This is nothing to do with you.'

'Isn't it, though?' The first man laughed softly. 'I'd let him stay. He won't cause any trouble, I'm sure.' A glance towards the thug. 'If he knows what's good for him. Better let the little ones stay too, I'm sure it's dangerous out there.' This with a mocking look and a leer that made Adela begin to cry. Marko had moved to her side and put his arms round her, ignoring the warning look from the visitor. The thug made a slight move toward them, but was checked by his boss. A look passed between Amato and his eldest son: a glance at the two younger children, at the door. Marko nodded imperceptibly.

Julyan hadn't listened much to the adults' conversation. Torn between anger and fear, he'd stayed in a corner, fighting tears. Marko carefully inched his way nearer the door, still holding his sister close. He caught Julyan's eye and jerked his head a fraction, a silent message: 'Come on.' He'd been too frightened to move. He shook his head, a tiny movement, but the small man saw. He spun round, seeing Marko who had left Adela and was making his way slowly back towards the younger boy.

'You stay still! Or was I wrong? Maybe you don't know what's good for you. Maybe my friend here should teach you?'

Marko had frozen. He looked up, 'I know alright.' He crossed the room and held Julyan's hand. 'Don't worry about that.' He held the other's gaze until the small man turned away, speaking to the children's parents again.

Then he made a break for it, lifting his brother and running with him across the little room. He pushed past the two strangers and shoved Adela through the door, shouting for the little girl to run, hide. The thug had been caught by surprise, but recovering he grabbed the teenager's shirt and pulled him back.

'Go, Julyan!' Dropped by his brother, he'd started to run obediently, but at the door he'd sensed that Marko wasn't behind him and turned, unsure. The thug had thrown his brother to the floor and pulled out a knife. The teenager twisted frantically away and the first stroke pierced his belly instead of his cutting his throat. He yelled in agony.

'No!' Julyan threw himself towards them, trying to stop the next blow that would kill his brother. It worked, more or less. The knife sank into his leg, making him scream, but they were both alive.

'Little brat!'

'Get the girl.' The small man ordered.

'I'll kill the little bastard!'

'I'll deal with them, Karl, find the damn girl!' The thug obeyed, sprinting after Adela.

The small man had Amato and his wife pinned in a corner at crossbowpoint. He produced a pair of handcuffs from a pocket and, keeping the bow in one hand, locked one ring around Ginevre's left wrist. He motioned to them to move, stopping in front of the stove. He passed the free end of the cuffs behind the stovepipe and closed the second ring around Amato's arm.

He moved towards the two wounded boys, huddled on the floor. He took Marko's left arm and roughly forced it backwards towards the leg of the dresser: not fastened to the floor, but much too heavy for the injured teenager to move. He looked around for something to tie him with, then laughed.

'I don't think you'll be going anywhere! But we'd better make sure your little brother doesn't wander off. Might get lost!'

Marko twisted around and spat in his face. The man kicked him in the belly, where Karl's blade had wounded him. He screamed in pain, doubled over in agony. Julyan watched through helpless tears.

The small man grabbed him by the arm and with his free hand undid the cord which Marko wore as a belt. He tied the brothers' wrists tightly together and laughed again as Marko's right hand went to the knot.

'No untying now!' He pulled the boy's hand towards the floor and stamped down, grinding his foot viciously on Marko's fingers, feeling bones break. This time he didn't scream: gasping at the pain, he looked up at his tormentor, anger fighting for control of his features against pain and fear. The small man smiled horribly, then turned away to finish his work.

He pulled aside the curtain which divided the room. Two mattresses just fitted between the curtain and the wall. He pulled the blankets off and threw them down in front of the door.

A high-pitched scream in the street. Ginevre hid her face in her hands. Amato fought desperately against his bonds; tried to pull his hand out of the steel ring, tried to break the stovepipe. Marko struggled to get up, but fell back in agony. Julyan sobbed, curled in a ball on the floor.

The small man smiled, but carried on with his job.

He dragged the table towards the door and turned in on its side. He rummaged the cupboard in the dresser, tossing the family's few possessions onto the floorboards. A china cat, handed from mother to daughter down from Ginevre's great grandmother's time as a precious heirloom, promised to Adela when she should marry, shattered into fragments.

He found a lantern, threw this also to one side and then pulled out the little tin of oil that filled it. He trickled oil onto the first mattress, walked slowly across the room, oil dribbling from the tin: a trail to the base of the curtain, to the pile by the door. He tossed the almost empty tin onto the heap. He climbed over the upturned table, grinned mockingly and struck a match.

**X X X**

'Assassins' was the hot topic of the day in Pseudopolis Yard. When Vimes was absolutely definitely not around.

'Nobby bastards.' Sergeant Colon declared. There was a general chorus of agreement amongst the off-duty coppers.

'Kill their own mothers for a good enough pay-off.'

'Don't kill anyone, unless you have to, to stop them hurting people who can't stop them themselves.**1**'

'Think they're so much better than anyone else, but you can't trust them one inch.'

'There's just something wrong about it. I've nothing against an honest murderer.' The room went quite uncomfortably quiet. Constable Williams looked around.

Careful mate; if Vimes heard you say a thing like that...'

Lance Constable Pollock, who had spoken, looked uncomfortable. 'I mean, if someone's got a grudge against you, or something, you know to watch your back when they're about. But if they're just killing you because some rich twat's paying them to, you've no idea.'

'Nobby bastards.' Colon repeated, 'Nothing against our Corporal Nobbs, mind; he's just Nobby, a bastard.' He got it out straight-faced, just. The canteen's disgruntled air dissolved into a mist of chuckles. Someone slapped Fred on the back. Only Corporal C W St John Nobbs was silent.

'Nobby! You know I was only kidding. Just pulling your leg!'

'My parents were married, Fred.'

'I know they were, Nobby, you know that's not what I meant.'

'So what did you mean? Do you mean that you meant that I'm an ''obnoxious or despicable person''? And it's Corporal Nobbs.'

'''Obnoxious or despicable person''?'

'I looked it up in a dictionary. Bastard means ''person born of parents not married to each other'' or ''obnoxious or despicable person.'' And if you didn't mean the first one then you must of meant the second one. So, do you think I'm obnoxious, or despicable, Fred?'

'If you're going to be like that, Corporal Nobbs, it's ''Sergeant'' to you.'

'Well,-'

'Isn't it time you all went out on patrol?' Carrot broke in on their bickering. 'Detritus, Mister Vimes wants you to take a look at that workshop in Hogsback Alley.'

'Yes Ser!' The troll sergeant saluted, very precisely.

'Take Cheery with you, and yes, Brick, you can go as well.' The young troll hadn't even begun to raise his hand; he looked at the seven foot dwarf with awe. Lance-Constable Brick hero-worshipped Carrot only a fraction less than his Uncle Detritus.

'Fred, Nobby, you're doing Traffic Calming in Broadway again.' The pair looked at one another, and left the room, each trying to stay as far from the other as they could. This caused some difficulty when they reached the door. Their voices could be heard receding down the passageway.

'If that's what you think I don't think I want to be your friend anymore!'

'Oh go put your dress on, Nobby!'

**X X X**

The killer who Vimes had dubbed The Bastard was waiting for his next target. He crouched in the shadows of a narrow alley off King's Way. It was a busy street, but he wasn't hiding**2**, because he was as good as invisible. Anyone who looked could see him, although not distinctly in the gloom. But no-one did look. There was a way of it. Just be unimportant. Unremarkable. Anyone who did chance to see him took not the slightest bit of notice.

He'd been there since dawn, and it was now past midday, but he had plenty of time. No-one would bother him and the man would pass by some time. There was no hurry. More people passed by the alley's mouth. To do this without being noticed would be his most difficult job yet. He planned his attack with care.

**X X X**

Sergeant Angua and Constable Sally von Humpeding were patrolling together.

'Oh come on, please.'

'No.'

'Pretty please. It'll be fun.'

'No.'

'You'll really enjoy yourself. The band's really good, and they've got a new singer; you'd swear he's elvish.'

'No, Sally. I do not want to go on a girls' night out at this time of the month. A whole enchanted forest full of elvish musicians would not persuade me.'

'Pretty please with sugar on top.' Angua was silent. 'It'll help you relax.'

'I do not need to relax!' Angua rounded on her partner almost with a snarl, 'and I don't want to discuss it anymore.' They proceeded down King's Way in silence.

They'd turned left onto Prouts and were headed for Misbegot Bridge before Sally brought the subject up again: 'Please Angua.' Silence. 'I'll do anything you want.' Silence. 'I'll stop calling you Annie.'

'You've never called me Annie.'

'Would you like me to start?'

'No.'

'Is that no, you wouldn't like me to call you Annie, so you'll come; or no, you don't want to come, even though I will call you Annie if you don't.'

'No.'

'Alright, Annie.' Angua cleared her throat**3**. 'Pretty please with sugar and sprinkles on top.' Silence. 'Ravishingly beautiful please with anything-you-want on top.'What happened next was not pretty, and I choose not to document it. Suffice it to say that Sally shut up afterwards.

Relations were still strained when the slightly dishevelled coppers reached Treacle Mine Road and the less salubrious areas of Morpork. Angua was not in a good mood to hear the wolf whistle from the shadows.

It wouldn't have been good at the best of times. The werewolf sergeant preferred to keep her... abilities secret as much as possible, and even at the Watch House, say, or in Biers, where everyone knew, such jokes did not go down well. With PLT thrown into the mix, you couldn't have inn-sewered the whistler's life for a Borogravian Cent**4**.

So it was no surprise when Angua turned from her path with a look on her face to send the Silver Hoard of Cohen the Barbarian, greatest of all the disc's heroes, running for their lives. Possibly crying for their mothers. Crying for their mothers. And when the figure sitting huddled against a wall called out in a hoarse whisper; 'Hey, bitch.' it should have been another suicide for the Watch to not investigate.

So it was a very great surprise when Angua stopped, and crouched on her heels to speak to the stranger.

* * *

**1**Book of Brutha, Chapter 2, vs1-2

**2**If you're going to hide, you'd better make dead sure no-one can see you at all. Strangely, people are amazingly good at spotting things that are trying really, really hard not to be seen, but if it's in plain view, they will let almost anything pass unheeded.

**3**At least that's how Sally chose to hear it. It certainly couldn't have been a faint growl.

**4**The Borogravian Dollar is probably the weakest currency on the Disc, mostly because of the country's long history of fighting their neighbours instead of trading with them. AM$1 is worth approximately BG$20 000 at the time of printing, however plans are in place to replace it with the Borogravian Squid, worth BG$10 000.


	4. Street Nights

The little boy coughed. Vimes instantly panicked. Not that he always panicked whenever his son coughed; he would, had it been suggested, have hastened to say. Not panicked as such. Just ran through a whole series of awful scenes in his mind's eye: Young Sam swallowing some small object and choking to death. Young Sam fighting pneumonia, lying in his bed pale and sweating, struggling to breathe. Young Sam...

But not panicked.

But the toddler had coughed twice already since Vimes had picked him up, so he panicked.

It took a little time for Sybil to reassure him. Young Sam had had a bit of a cough lately; children did get coughs, all the time and it was nothing to worry about. But she was going to take him to Dr Lawn tomorrow anyway, just to be on the safe side. And it was getting on for being past his bedtime now; sleep was the best thing for him, you know. Vimes was still not completely happy, but he put it to one side and carried his son upstairs to read _Where's My Cow?_**1** and put him to bed. It had been a long day. Damn Vetinari!

**X X X**

Damn Vetinari! In his room at the Guild Biondi mused over the day's events. He'd thought he'd had everything under control, but he'd not reckoned with the Patrician deciding to- to agree with Downey's and his own repeated requests, he told himself, a little ruefully, and officially hand the case over to the Guild.

Dammit! The bloody man had been about to agree! Vimes had been about to agree with an Assassin, even more, to agree to work with an Assassin, and Vetinari had... No use crying over spilled turd; he'd have to make the best of it on his own. It wasn't as though the Watch had been any use so far. He'd been amazed that they hadn't even picked up that the killer was left-handed. And, he smiled to himself: at least he could say he'd made Vimes agree with an Assassin.

**X X X**

'Let's get one thing straight. I hate Assassins, and I particularly hate you. You've been interfering with my job, and you made me make a fool of myself in front of bloody Lord bloody Downey! You are going to tell me everything I ask, and anything else you know, or you are going to fall down the stairs to the cells until you can't tell if it's arsehole or breakfast time, to use one of Fred's expressions. Understood?'

'Of course, you don't hate all Assassins, now Mr Vimes?'

'You bloody insolent... And you will not call me Mr Vimes. That's a privilege you have to earn, and no bloody Assassin is going to...'

'I am most sorry, Sir Samuel.'

'You know bloody well what you're up to, and you also know full well I do hate all Assassins: hate their bloody guts and their twisted minds!'

'Again, I'm sorry. Would you prefer Your Grace or Your Excellency?'

'Neither of them, Assassin, and you will start co-operating now!'

'Of course, my Lord. And I was referring to a certain D'reg, whom I understand you actually got on quite well with,'

'Don't you dare drag that up!'

'I am sorry, my Lord, if I've caused any offence. I was only trying to suggest that perhaps-'

'You don't get to suggest anything. You answer my bloody questions! And if you say 'my Lord' one more time I will not be held responsible for my actions!'

'Of course, Your Blackboard-Monitorship.'

'Damn you, Assassin. You will call me Commander, or Sir.'

'Exactly what I was about to suggest, Commander. I would simply like to say that perhaps we are stronger united, and as it has been seen that you are not completely unable to work with Assassins...'

'Damn you! And as if you can compare 71-hour Ahmed with the rest of you posh bastards! He's only a nob compared to the D'regs. He's a lying cheating weaselling damn good copper, who learned a trick or two at your Guild without picking up too much of the rot.'

'And I believe a certain Assassin who was a senior student at the time wears lilac on the twenty-fifth of May.'

'Do not bring that up. Or him.'

'There was also Inigo Skimmer.'

'And I never liked the wretched man. And he wasn't like you anyway. Scholarship boy he said he was. I suppose the rest of you treated him like a servant like you do most people. And he was still a twisted sneaky little bastard.'

'Yes, he never really took to it. He was only ever good at the practical work. He was good at that, but not good enough it seems.'

'So he wasn't a proper Assassin either. You're all bloody nobs. You can't expect gutter scum like me to hobnob with nobs and like it.'

'With respect, Sir, one could say that you yourself are a nob, as you put it.'

'Oh no you don't! I'm jumped-up gutter scum.'

'Ah yes. You were born in the Shades, were you not?' The Assassin's voice was smooth, his face carefully unreadable. The face of a student who'd come top in Political Expediency.

'Yes. Cockbill Street. And I spent my childhood running wild in the streets with the Cockbill Street Roaring Lads.'

'Ah, a nob from the start, then.'

'What!‽'

**X X X**

Andrei made his slow way down another street. Ankh-Morpork was a big, crowded city alright. It seemed there was a waiting list for doorways. He was too tired to walk much further: maybe he should stop aiming so high and settle for a gutter. Although that alleyway looked empty.

It wasn't, but neither the snoring dwarf nor the young man who sat staring into space seemed to mind sharing with him. At least they made no complaint, and didn't seem inclined to offer any violence. Apparently alleys were public property.

He found the warmest looking corner and tried to get comfortable.

The dusk deepened to night. The moon edged into view, peering past the grubby walls. Not full, but gibbous, and round enough to see her face. A proud, cruel face. A mocking face, it always looked to him. He tried to look away but she dragged his gaze towards her: a captive to her unearthly silver beauty, he watched her. She slowly crept across the black sky until outlined in the velvet slit between the two walls of dingy stone she could pour her ghostly light straight down towards him.

It picked out the discarded debris of urban life, thrown away into this little place of ruin and decay. The moon's eerie light and the long shadows she cast distorted the broken shapes into weird, crazed forms that seemed to move as wisps of cloud made the light break and dance.

It picked out the stark silhouette of the city skyline: roofs and towers and chimneys and weathercocks, alike in the blackness of night. Another world up there, airy and free.

It picked out the young man's face, half turned towards Andrei as his head lolled against the wall. His gaunt features and matted hair. His wide open eyes, glowing with reflected moonlight, like tiny twin moons themselves, but blank and staring. Awake, but in some other world, a private world, an escape from the cruel cuffs and kicks this world gave to one so far down that looking up he might just see the lowest rung of the ladder.

It shone straight into Andrei's face, so that he closed his good eye against it. He looked down at his hands, bathed in the pale light. How silver it was, the cold, bright light of that cold, cruel, irresistible lady.

He raised his left hand to his face, touching his scars and the strip of threadbare cloth that hid the ruin of his left eye. A bitter smile twitched the corner of his mouth as he imagined how his face looked caught in the moonlight. Not a face to make friends easily. He lowered his hand. A beam of light hit the worn leather strapping around his wrist; a bracelet of silver shone round his arm. He stared, fascinated at the image. He moved his other hand into the light until a matching ring gleamed around his right wrist, held both hands together so that the two bands of light were joined. He curled his fingers inwards until it hurt, but couldn't make a fist; opened them as far as he could but couldn't straighten them. With a sudden jerk he pulled his hands apart and the silver rings dissolved.

He folded his arms across his body and hung his head not to look at the moon any more. A bitter laugh became a sob. A tear dropped onto his hand. The light caught it and turned it to a droplet of molten silver as it ran over his skin, but it didn't burn; it was only warm as he raised his arm to his mouth again and licked up the salty bead.

* * *

**1**Young Sam is now three years and about three months old. In the tales of the Klatchian Nights, the Vizier's daughter told the cruel King a different story every night for one thousand and one nights, always not finishing, so that he would put off her execution until the next evening. All very well, but one has to wonder what sort of mind could enjoy the same story more than one thousand, one hundred nights in a row. But to Vimes, it's the greatest story ever written.


	5. Street Fights

It seemed that even the sunlight recoiled from Ankh-Morpork, slowing, even pausing for an instant at the edges of the great twin city. That is, of course, completely ridiculous. Any observer who thought about it could easily see that the effect was simply caused by the Disc's heavy, slow light**1** piling up momentarily against the walls.

Dawn dawned in the city, its sluggish fingers creeping along the streets below Ankh-Morpork's morning blanket of discoloured fog. Above the murk, it sloshed in a bright and silent lake, reaching the far side some seconds faster and creating an effect which might be quite interesting to someone like Leonard of Quirm as some of it curled backwards to meet the light oozing though the city.

Dawn in Pseudopolis Yard, and the night shift was over. The officers had reported back, done their best to avoid doing any paperwork, drunk the hot beverages of their choice and were beginning to head home.

Dawn in Scoone Avenue, and the Vimes-Ramkin house was quiet. Vimes was sound asleep; his years in the Night Watch had long trained his body not to wake before the afternoon. Beside him, Lady Sybil lay awake, savouring the few minutes before she would get up. The morning rounds of the dragon pens had to be made and by then Young Sam would be waking up. For now he was fast asleep. Willikins was also awake, and the maids were already up and working, but good servants make no noise, especially early in the morning.

Dawn in the Shades, and the warren of narrow streets and alleys were alive with activity, but unusually peaceful. This was the time when those whose activities were undertaken in darkness headed for home and the tenancy of the streets passed to the denizens of the day. It was the time when there was an unspoken agreement that no-one bothered anyone else. The night shift was over but day had yet to begin. One half of the inhabitants had finished their business and the other had not begun their work. In the Shades the night and day were equally fraught with peril, but in this brief space of time it was for the most part safe to walk the streets.

Dawn at the Palace, and Drumknott entered the Oblong Office. Vetinari was at his desk. He'd been at his desk when the clerk had left the previous evening, showing no sign of preparing to stop work. He must have slept sometime in the night, but there was no time to dwell on such things. The job of head clerk to the Patrician required total concentration.

Dawn in Broadway, and at the corner of Filigree Street the Guild of Assassins was not bustling. Assassins had far too much class to bustle. But it was busy in a way that preserved the same subtle distance from bustle as, say, an alcoholic did from a drunkard. Servants were up and working, Assassins and students were up and dressing. For an Assassin, this requires care and attention, which is why most of them are up by dawn. There is no such thing as a badly dressed Assassin. A few latecomers were still returning from their night-time activities. For senior students, curfew is the beginning of the next day's lessons. The only penalty for staying out late is facing lessons with little or no sleep; in extreme cases without breakfast.

Dawn in King's Way, and in the mouth of an alleyway lies a stiffening corpse, a bloody wound in its belly. Soon the Watch will be summoned, but for now the early morning passers-by, few in this affluent part of the city, hurry past, uninterested in anything but their personal errands.

Dawn in another alleyway, in The Scours, and Andrei awoke from his uneasy rest chilled to the bone and as stiff as a four hour corpse. He groaned and after a few minutes ventured to push himself upright. Eventually the various pains settled more or less down to their usual levels. He didn't feel like trying to stand just yet though, better to sit here for a while.

He thought longingly of the warm and comfortable bed he could have been sleeping in. Of course, the beds at Mrs Cake's could for all he knew have been iron-hard slabs, with springs sharpened to ruthless points and sheets to give sandpaper a bad name, standing in dim and draughty unheated rooms where the wind-chill penetrated but the sun's warmth was unknown. It could have been even less luxurious than the Hotel de la Homeless, but he doubted it. After all, Miss von Überwald had said it was a good boarding house.

There was much to be said for the sour grapes philosophy, but right now it was just helping him to think of warm blankets and soft pillows.

Letting his mind wander, he idly watched it stroll down Recollection Alley**3** to Elm Street yesterday afternoon. That had been a memorable conversation.

**X X X**

'Yes, Oi am.' It had taken a short while for him to catch on,

'Are you Mrs Cake?'

'Oi do, but Oi've no room until at least next month. Who told you Oi did?'

'I understand you take in boarders? I was told you'd have a room free.'

'Oh, well.' She suddenly sounded much less like a lioness and more like someone's kindly aunt. 'In that case, Oi'm sorry not to be able to help. Oi did have a room, but Oi've let it out. You're just a couple of hours too late. Are you a friend of hers, dear?' This was a little more complicated. There was a longer pause while Andrei mentally replayed the conversation the other way round and filled in the gap:

'One of your lodgers: Miss von Überwald, Sergeant von Überwald, I should say, told me about you. She said you were very understanding about ... special needs.'

'Of course Oi can, moi dear.' She stuck a finger in one ear and wiggled it, then spoke again. 'That's better. Now, you were going to have said...'

'If you don't mind me asking, Ma'am, I can tell you're a clairvoyant, of course, but can you switch off your precognition? This conversation is getting a little confusing, and I wouldn't like not to ask a question you've answered. Speaking of which...' he thought for a minute and continued,

'I only met her today; but, we've one or two things in common, shall I say? I asked if she knew somewhere I could get a room: somewhere affordable, and more importantly, somewhere where I'd not get a nasty shock when they got the best cutlery out for Octeday dinner, for instance.

'There, I think that's everything.'

'Thank you dear. Well, as Oi said, Oi can't help you until next month at the soonest, Oi'm afraid.'

'I'm sorry to have taken up your time, Mrs Cake. I'll be going now.' He turned to leave and missed his footing on the step, putting his weight on a crutch that turned out to be resting on thin air.

**X X X**

Lance-Constable Sadik flinched.

'Damn!' The shout reverberated through Pseudopolis Yard.

Sadik wore the faintly glazed look of déjà vu sufferers everywhere. He shook his head briefly and blinked. The young Hershebian had joined the Watch a few weeks ago, having arrived in the city homeless, friendless and almost penniless, with a less than perfect command of Morporkian and no idea why wandering around the Shades alone wasn't a good idea: he'd quickly attracted the attention of some of the area's more**4** savoury characters and then of the Watch.

Sally had considered arresting the semi-conscious, and now completely penniless, shoeless and half naked youth for contravening the Being Bloody Stupid act of 1581, but decided not to on the grounds that suicide, attempted or otherwise, was no longer a crime. He'd been sent to the Lady Sybil and on being let out after a couple of days of bed rest and headache pills, had asked his way to the Watch house as the only place where he knew anyone at all.

Vimes had taken an interest in the recruit ever since he'd ducked a split-second before Vimes had reached behind him for a banana.

**X X X**

Ted 'Ears**1**' Orsin nudged one of his companions and jerked his head at the depths of a nearby alley.

'Yoo like pickin the easy ones don' ya Ted! I could take that one on me own. Wiv one and be'ind me back.'

'Blindfold!'

'Yeah! Yur a wimp'ead, Ears.'

'Wass wrong with easy pickings then? I ent goin trailin round arf uv Morpork lookin for sum 'ard bastard armed to the teeth when there's easy pickings right over there!'

'Ow d'yoo know e's so soft any'ow? Looks a tough un te me. Lookit all them scars! An a cripple woodn' last more'n five minits roun' here less e's arder than e looks.'

'Must've only bin ere five minits then mustn' e. E don' look tuff; e looks like e's ad the shite knocked out uv im. Twice. Yur bloody chicken, Gus!'

'Yur all a load'a bleedin fools entya? It don' matter if he's tougher than he looks. If he's a tough un, we kin take him cos we're tough too an there's five uv us. An if he ent, it'll be bleedin easy, won' it?'

Five bodies turned to face the figure in the alleyway. Three and two half pairs of eyes glinted maliciously. Seven hands gripped weapons of choice. Andrei readied himself.

With care he could stand, leaning on his crutches, without holding on to them. In his right hand he gripped a long knife, the last few inches of the strap around his wrist wrapped round fingers and hilt not to drop the blade. Werewolves tended to fight shy of using weapons, but the way Andrei saw it, claws, teeth and a knife ought to beat claws and teeth or a knife. And the claws and teeth of a half-blind and badly lame wolf, struggling to get out of its human counterpart's clothes in a hurry, needed all the help they could get.

The thugs advanced. The one named Gus stepped forward,

'Yer money or yer life! Tha's how it goes init? Not, that we're gonna let yoo go if yoo pay up, but yoo gotta do these things prop'ly, ent yoo?' Without waiting for a reply he lunged at Andrei with his dagger

Andrei parried desperately with his own knife. Gus moved in for the kill, and looked down stupidly at his belly.

Andrei's left hand, which had seemed to be holding his crutch for support, in fact gripped the hilt of a second dagger, the blade of which was now buried deep in Gus' stomach. But the rest of the gang were closing in, and the trick only worked once.

* * *

**1**Comparitively. Light in the Disc's magical field travels about the same speed as sound, which although immeasurably slower than Roundworld's light, is still faster than Usain Bolt with his shoelaces done up**2**.

**2**He broke the hundred metres world record with one shoe untied, looking over his shoulder, and despite living on a diet of chicken nuggets.

**3**A much less exclusive street near Memory Lane. You have to have lived in someone's memory for at least five years to have a chance of getting a house in Memory Lane. If it's shorter than that you'll have to be content with a flat on Reminiscence Avenue. Recollection Alley is where gutter scum sleep, like the night before the morning after.

**4**Had he been so unfortunate as to fall in with the less savoury denizens of the Shades, there wouldn't have been anything left.

**5**Owing to his liking for the little-known Morporkian delicacy, pigs' ear trifle. Not as popular as the knuckle sandwich, but as Ted would proudly state: his mum could make a right pig's ear of it.


	6. Cooking

Vimes was still brooding over the events of last night as he shaved that afternoon. He carefully navigated a tricky area with the razor, then spoke,

'Willikins, when you were a boy, the Shamlegger Street boys had a bit of a turf war going with the lads from Monkey Street, didn't they?' Monkey Street! The man was an Assassin now, and you'd never tell the difference between him and the rest of the slick bastards.

You didn't get much lower than Monkey Street. Monkey Street was where Cockbill Street people looked down on. Cockbill Street was poor as dirt, but they had standards. Monkey Street people bought their clothes from the pawn shop. People in gutters in Cockbill Street looked down on people with rooms in Monkey Street.

'Correct, Sir. The 'Monkey Street Marauding Scallywags', as they designated themselves, were some of our most challenging adversaries. I don't believe they ever came up against the Cockbill Street Lads, though.'

'No, Shamlegger territory between us, and of course with the truce, so we never tried anything in that direction. You don't remember anyone called Biondi? No, I suppose not, he must be about twenty years younger than you. Probably wasn't even born when you left Shamlegger.'

'In fact I believe I do remember facing an opponent of that name: a certain Marko Biondi. A particularly fierce fighter. Perhaps a relative of the gentleman you mention?'

'Perhaps. About your age, was he? Or a bit older? Could be his father.'

'Actually he was considerably younger than myself. I still took part in the occasional 'rumble' with the boys from back home when I was seventeen: it was about then that Biondi first appeared with the Scallywags. He was six years old, I believe, but as I said, particularly fierce and considerably more skilled in a fight than you might have expected from such a 'rookie'. I learned rather quickly, and as you might say 'the hard way' not to underestimate him. I still have the scars, although I am quite sure that he does too.'

'He was six and he held his own against you in a fight? Bloody hellfire! I wouldn't have liked to have come up against him!

'Six when you were seventeen? That puts eleven years between the two of you, so he must be less than ten years older than the one I know. Could be his brother, or a cousin maybe.'

'Brother, I suspect, Sir. We thought it prudent to know our enemies, and to that end we conducted a certain amount of 'espionage' in Monkey Street. The Biondi family weren't from Ankh-Morpork: possibly Quirm or Pseudopolis, although Marko was born in the city; in any case, they had no relatives in Ankh-Morpork.'

'Well, if his little brother takes after him, it's no wonder the Assassins' Guild took him on. Probably thought they'd better get him on their side before... before... Damn it!'

'Sir?'

'Damn it! That's why he's so keen to catch The Bastard himself. We know it's not him and anyway he's right- handed, but... Willikins, can you remember if your Biondi was left-handed?'

'It was hard to tell: he tended to use both hands in a fight. But on the whole, I'm fairly sure he was right-handed.'

'Damn and bloody blast him to Hell and back! Whenever I think I'm getting somewhere... But he could fight with either hand, you say? So maybe he uses his left to throw us off the scent. We look for a lefty and we look straight past him!'

'Possibly, Sir. Or he may even be left-handed now. All I know is that he was right-handed nearly thirty years ago. He could easily have met with some misfortune to his right hand since then.'

'Willikins, I could kiss you! Well, perhaps not, but we've done it! Well, we still have to find him, but now we know who we're looking for. Biondi said his family were dead, but he must have been lying. Maybe...'

Maybe they'd faked his brother's death. Maybe he'd been in some kind of trouble, and the death of the family was a perfect chance for Marko to disappear. Perhaps Biondi, the younger Biondi, the Assassin, had really thought he was dead; maybe they'd both thought the other was dead. But Marko Biondi was back and he was killing people and his brother knew and was trying to protect him. Of course he probably went by another name now, he could be quite hard to find.

'You'd better tell me everything you know about him. Any distinguishing features?'

'Yes Sir. Of course, he has probably changed a lot. Black hair, greenish eyes, fairly olive skin. He was on the small side for his age, and skinny, but that doesn't mean anything now. He has a scar across his chest and stomach: from the right - his right - shoulder to a few inches above his left hip. The sort of thing you'd get from a Morpork dagger.' Willikins smiled with a touch of pride and a hint of embarrassment.

'Your handiwork? And if he's as much of a street fighter as you say, he's probably covered in scars. Anything else? And what weapons did he go in for.'

'He seemed to be able to use just about anything. He did have a favourite though: something like a set of brass knuckles, but with spikes on them. I've no idea where they came from, but he had one for each hand and he'd come at you like a wild animal with claws and teeth. Oh, yes, teeth: I've heard that there are tribes in central Klatch who file their teeth to points and I think that young Marko must have heard of it as well. You know what they say about dwarf fighters: 'When the top of his head is level with your stomach, his teeth are level with your groin.' But at least they don't have fangs - just the dog-teeth. Of course, they would probably have been his first teeth, and there's no knowing if he did the same to his second ones. But he always fought more like a savage beast than anyone else I've ever met except perhaps Sergeant Angua. That's all I can tell you, Sir.'

**X X X**

Lady Sybil sat in Dr Lawn's waiting room with Young Sam on her lap. The little boy wriggled in her arms and whined to get down; when he wasn't allowed he began to cry loudly. His mother told him off sternly and he quickly stopped shedding what must have been swamp dragon tears.

**X X X**

Death dismounted in the street and stalked into the alleyway. He was good at stalking, and he felt it was expected of him. Binky waited patiently for his master to finish his work.

Several bodies lay on the ground; their recent inhabitants already standing beside them. One tugged at the thin thread of blue light that connected him to his corpse with the single-minded impatience of an overactive but not overly bright dog on a chain that was just too short to let him go and investigate that really really interesting smell on the other side of the garden. The scythe fell and the line broke and then shattered: a hundred points of blue light glittered and vanished. Released, the former man took half a dozen steps forward and then stood, seemingly confused. He didn't seem to notice Death, and after a few moments he faded.

Two more souls, a man and a dwarf, made no trouble. They had little to say. Two more sweeps of the scythe and two more spirits stood briefly free of their bodies before dissolving into nothingness. Death turned on his heel and moved soundlessly back along the alleyway. He stopped.

'Are you here for me as well?'

NO. YOU CAN SEE ME?

'That's why I thought... They didn't have silver, but I don't know if I'm as hard to put an end to as most of my kind.' There was a hint of a question in his voice. Death heard it.

I DON'T KNOW.

YOU ARE NOT A WIZARD. It wasn't a question.

'No. Or anything else of that sort. And I'm sure I'm not a cat. And you say I'm not dead. I don't know why it is.'

**X X X**

Vimes stood in the shelter of a statue in Sator Square, out of the brisk wind and comfortable in the knowledge that he was as good as invisible. The man he was watching had caught his eye a few minutes ago. He reminded Vimes a little of the various barbarian heroes you often saw in taverns like the Mended Drum, and somewhat of the suave young Assassin who by now would be back in the cells at the Yard. It can be imagined whether this improved his mood.

He was dressed... well mostly what he was dressed in was weapons. Vimes had been counting and had reached twenty swords and knives of one type or other, but of course it was possible that there was a second layer, like a box of chocolates.

The gleaming blades were suspended from several broad belts of black leather, underneath which was quite a lot of bare skin and not a lot of clothing. What there was seemed mostly to be more black leather: not black leather in the expansive, aggressive, Hell's Angel style, but an outfit you might just possibly get if you took the standard loincloth-and-harness of a barbarian hero**1**, and showed it to a very good tailor, and asked for something a bit like that but really stylish.

The man had casually windswept blond hair which fell gracefully across his forehead**2**, translucently pale skin and handsome, intelligent features. He looked quite young. At this distance Vimes could not see his eyes clearly, but when he turned towards Vimes the light caught his face and reflected a bright blue gleam from beneath his finely arched eyebrows.

Vimes disliked him on sight, and his mental list of likely crimes was already quite long.

The stranger was talking to a somewhat older man who Vimes recognised as Lord Selachii's secretary; he finished his conversation, glanced around him and looked straight at Vimes with a brief but brilliant smile.

Vimes returned to Pseudopolis Yard in an even fouler mood than he had left it. On desk duty, Corporal Nobbs couldn't avoid his Commander's attention: staring blankly ahead like a rabbit in the headlights he stammered out replies to Vimes' terse enquiries as to the relative state of affairs now compared to when he had left the Yard, stuffing his answers with as many sirs as would decently fit. Officers so unlucky as to be caught in the fiery abyss of Vimes' gaze variously froze and tried to be as invisible as possible; busied themselves with some task and tried to look as if they hadn't noticed anything, they'd been facing precisely the opposite direction and so completely absorbed with checking each other's paperwork that they were completely oblivious to anything that might be taking place behind them; stood smartly to attention, pulling off a textbook salute and a completely innocent look that definitely wasn't slightly disapproving or cowered helplessly in a corner, eyes wide with fear.

It was a slightly softened Vimes who approached the trembling Sadik. The boy was slightly psychic. This wasn't as useful as it sounded since most of his abilities were somewhat unpredictable: he sometimes experienced events a few seconds before they happened, sometimes picked up and amplified other people's emotions and occasionally had visions of the more distant future. The main result of this was near terminal déjà vu and a tendency to jump at shadows and small noises.

On the other hand if Sadik suddenly ducked for no apparent reason**3** it sometimes - more often, you looked a bit daft when a couple of seconds later someone dropped a plate in a nearby house - paid to follow suit, and the one thing he could do with reliability was to tell when a person was lying.

'Come on lad, I need your help.' Vimes helped him to his feet and led him away. 'Need to talk to someone and I'd like to know what you think.'

'Fred! How's our friend coming along?' Vimes strode in without waiting for an answer and stopped outside Biondi's cell; 'Looks about done to me.' He turned to Sadik, who stood nervously in the doorway, 'It's a bit like cooking, you see. A watched prisoner never boils: you have to let them stew in their own juice. And sometimes you can overcook them, but more often they're like tough old steak: the longer you wait, the easier they are to chew up into little bits. Sometimes you need a bit of seasoning too. Ginger beer can have an amazing effect.' He paused to let this sink in, 'Or any number of other things. But it takes a practised hand: very easy to overdo it and spoil the flavour.

'What do you think, Assassin? Are you ready now, or do you need seasoning? A bit of tenderising, maybe? No? Come on then. Fred: keys.'

* * *

**1**Readers are advised strongly against attempting to remove any part of a barbarian hero's attire.

**2**An effect achieved by forty-five minutes in front of the mirror every morning, using every possible artifice to give the appearance of having just stepped out of bed.

**3**Bearing in mind that a passing bluebottle was reason enough.


	7. Obituary

After a long and painful illness, Damned Bloody Assassins has finally been pronounced dead.

I never intended this to happen, and I'm truly sorry to any readers who wanted to read the end. Until now, I genuinely did intend to finish it at some point, but realistically, that's almost certainly never going to happen. I feel that I owe readers an explanation. This fic was one of my first serious attempts at a novel-length piece, and as such, while it means quite a lot to me, it was never very good. It needs some serious reworking of what's already been posted as well as writing the rest of it, and I'm no longer sure I even like the story at all, even if I could get it into some kind of decent shape. I'm no longer seriously writing fanfiction - although there is one short piece in the pipeline, entitled Sic Semper, which _might _get done at some point; I've moved on to original work, and don't have the time to devote to fanfiction any more.

If anyone likes any of my characters or ideas from this fic and wants to borrow them, I would be delighted.

For the sake of not leaving people wondering, I'll end this by telling you what would have happened.

The rather interesting chap in black who Vimes encountered is a vampire, comma, hunter. In fact he is often a vampire hunter, but only because it takes one to inhume one. He's a licensed assassin, based in Uberwald, and in Ankh Morpork on business. (I don't know his name yet. For brevity I'll refer to him as V,H)

Andrei was going to be found, almost dead, following the fight in the alleyway, and would be 'adopted' by the Watch once Angua squashed any idea of his being The Bastard as she would definitely have smelled him.

I was going to edit in some more suggestions that Marko Biondi might have been a werewolf, and try to hint that he and Andrei were the same person. They're not.

Andrei's name is a reference to Angua's brother - it's not the same name as André, and they're nothing to do with each other. Although Andrei was going to possibly end up in the Cable Street Particulars. He's good at being an invisible person. He's also something of a poet and I had one or two nice scenes lined up with him entertaining literal-minded Morporkians.

Obviously, he's not Andrei von Ubervald, who is a yennork permanently in wolf form, but I was going to have a go at suggesting he was before reminding everyone of that fact.

V,H would also encounter the Watch (not sure of the details), resulting in a meeting between him and Andrei, who knows him from their past. Andrei would seem positively infatuated with him, and speak of him as if he could do no wrong, but Sadik's picking up on _someone_'s fear.

Not just the werewolf-vampire thing. Although it is related to the werewolf-vampire thing. (This is the bit I generally cringe at when thinking of this.) Andrei was kept imprisoned by vampires, who were attempting to make a kind of slave race out of werewolves. His scars and disabilities are from being tortured. V,H was behind this along with the rest of his family/clan, but he would sometimes show Andrei a little kindness. As a result, Andrei is suffering from severe 'Sto Kerrig syndrome', Sto Kerrig being the nearest Disc placename I could find to Stockholm. Andrei was 'helped to escape' by V,H, and is convinced that he never wanted any part of his imprisonment and torture. The 'business' for which V,H is in Ankh-Morpork is to find him and see how successful the plan was (quite successful).

I'm really not sure where that side plot was going.

In another side plot, (which also makes me cringe a little,) Young Sam's cough was going to turn out to be related to him developing asthma, which would become life-threatening. Vimes was going to give up smoking, as Doctor Lawn would tell him that it was harmful to his son even if he never actually smoked around Young Sam. He'd take up snuff instead (not related to any musings on the title Snuff, since I had this whole idea before I heard of it). However, Young Sam would die anyway, leaving Vimes racked with guilt. This was going to lead on to some depictions of Vimes' darker side.

Back to the main plot. Sadik's lie-detector ability would convince Vimes (correctly) that Biondi did not know or suspect that his brother was alive, but both of them would leave that interview with the idea that he was, and was The Bastard. Since Biondi (meaning Julyan; Marko will always be referred to by his first name) wants to be the first to find Marko, they would join forces, though not-exactly-secretly would both have different aims, Biondi wanting to help his brother escape.

A plan would be hatched whereby Biondi would be just a fraction too careless in his investigations in the Shades, in the hope that The Bastard would discover him. Then he would feign being off his guard to try and either

if it is Marko, get him to confront his brother. Or,

if it's not Marko, provoke an attack which in theory a trained assassin would be able to defend himself against.

The next scene would have Biondi staggering out of some desperate part of the Shades carrying a child. Both have been stabbed and are badly injured. While the child, who is the street urchin from the very first scene, was taken to be looked after, Biondi would insist on talking to Vimes as a matter too urgent to wait until his own injuries had been treated. At his first, rather desperate and garbled, attempt to explain, all Vimes would manage to gather is that it was Biondi who wounded the boy.

Vimes goes spare.

Biondi manages to convince him to hold off on beating the injured man to a pulp (remember, this is in the wake of his own little boy's death, as well as his usual attitude to crimes against children) until he's heard him out.

Despite being a trained assassin, and his own back-story, Biondi fell for exactly the same ploy as every other victim, and ignored The Bastard when he walked past the alley where he lay in wait. He did, in fact, notice him, but made the fatal mistake of assuming that the starved little street urchin was largely harmless and certainly not a serial killer. Vimes, of course, was on the right track with his earlier supposition that the killer was a dwarf - or someone about the height of a dwarf. The boy attacked Biondi, who instinctively fought back and had stabbed him before registering that he was just a child.

That's about all I know. Most likely the boy gets taken in and trained by the Assassins' Guild much like Biondi was. Or possibly he dies; he was already in quite a bad way before being stabbed. Biondi probably survives. As for ANdrei and V,H: not a clue.

**A Couple of Notes:**

Why Angua couldn't trace The Bastard: young children have very little body odour compared to adults. It never even occurred to anyone that The Bastard was pre-pubescent. Angua would have been able to detect the child's scent, but since it was so faint she discounted it as being much older and therefore not belonging to the killer, and it wasn't strong enough for her to remember it when she smelled it at other crime scenes.

Werewolves: We don't actually know that much about the Disc's version of werewolves, so I made up what I needed to, trying to keep it in line with what we _do_ know.

Only fire or silver can hurt werewolves, and they heal perefectly from all injuries. So you might be wondering how Andrei ended up in such a state. In my interpretation, werewolves don't magically heal from injuries inflicted by fire and silver. Burns affect them just as they do anyone else, and a cut from a silver blade will leave a scar. In addition, silver burns werewolves, but a mere touch doesn't kill them: it would have to be a fatal injury inflicted by a silver weapon, or burns severe enough to be fatal.

I also wanted wolfsbane to poison werewolves, before remembering that that doesn't work in Discworld: Angua states that it's 'just a silly herb'. But in fact there are many plants referred to as wolfsbane, so I just invented a very rare and little-known one that's the real deal. True wolfsbane is deadly to werewolves in high enough doses, and at lower doses merely makes them very ill, and can have lasting effects. It also burns and prevents healing if applied to wounds.

Andrei was restrained with silver chains, leaving his wrists and ankles badly scarred. He has limited use of his hands, but binds them with heavy straps to brace his wrists, and also to wrap around his fingers and any object he needs to hold securely. He was also repeatedly injured with silver tools and with fire, and poisoned with true wolfsbane - not enough to kill him but leaving him severely weakened. Not only is he disabled by the effects of his treatment, but it's possible that he's so weakened by things that can kill werewolves that ordinary things might be able to kill him because of his weakness on top of the temporary effects of ordinary injuries - neither he nor Death are sure about that, though.

Monkey Street: Monkey street is a real street in Morpork, much deeper in the Shades than Cockbill Street. To the best of my knowledge, that's all we know about it from canon, so I invented a little as background for the Biondi family. Being in the heart of the Shades, Monkey Street is full of much less savoury characters than Vimes' home. It's also even more deprived: Monkey Street people are too poor to buy soap, and Monkey Street people buy their clothes from the pawn shop. Hence why Vimes was 'a nob from the start' from Biondi's point of view: Monkey Street is where Cockbill Street people look down on.


End file.
